Page 119 of The Prince's Captive

She brushed her hands together to clean them of any crumbs as she narrowed her eyes at him. “What does that mean?Puellais girl, but what are you calling me?”

Gavril’s laugh died, but there was still a light in his eyes and the bags under his eyes didn’t seem as deep. He said, “Contumaxis—Stubborn, proud. I am calling you a stubborn girl, which you are.”

Her mind spun at the revelation. She’d… expected a worse insult. Maybe it was more insulting for his people.

“And your people—you do not like stubborn girls?”

“My people?” Gavril’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Some might use it to admonish, but I find—I do not mean it as an insult. It is… a—an observation.”

Marcella remembered all the times he muttered it under his breath, and she wasn’t entirely convinced. But it wasn’t like his girl—not his girl anymore—Aimilia was some kind of bending willow, so she supposed he never would have pursued her if he valued a girl who would give into his every whim.

But why he would value her enough to comment on such a quality was beyond her. It had been months and still she had given him nothing of value.

She nodded and gestured to the glasses. “Now we drink?”

Gavril picked up the first cup with one hand and moved the empty plate out of the way with the other so he could move even closer. Marcella’s breath caught in her chest as he reached for her face with his free hand, gently sliding his hand to the back of her hand and cupping it. He lifted the glass to her lips and slowly tilted it up.

Marcella took a sip as soon as the wine touched her lips. The quality of this wine was so much better than the one they’d had on the road during the first strange ritual he’d put her through. She didn’t know why he was wasting such quality on her, even in the hopes of good fortune. Maybe quality mattered. The better the food and drink, the better the fortune? She didn’t understand.

But when she wanted fortune, she turned to Asentai.

Although she wasn’t getting much of it lately.

Other than actually seeing the Heart the other day. The problem was she wasn’t positive she’d be able to find that room again if she tried. She’d been too busy panicking and fighting every step on the way there to catalogue, and trying too hard to get back to see what had happened to Gavril as she was dragged away.

Gavril pulled the glass back, sitting back as he moved to place it on the ground, and his other hand slowly left her head.

He picked up the other cup and pressed it into her hand and gave her a nod. Marcella shifted forward as she took it, sliding her other hand to the back of his head and repeating the gesture. Once she tilted the cup and he’d drunk, she pulled back—deciding trying to drown him this time wouldn’t really be productive. She set the glass down and started to pull her left hand back, but Gavril reached up and caught her wrist, holding it in place against the side of his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her palm. He whispered, “Quos amor verus tenuit tenebit.”

Marcella didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what he was saying.

If he wanted her to know, he would say it in her tongue.

It was probably some part of the tradition… right?

He opened his eyes and let go of her hand and then said in her tongue, “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Well… Why turn down cake and wine?” Marcella said as she pulled her hand back into her lap and sat back.

“Fair enough,” Gavril said, smiling at her. His eyes lingered on her left wrist for a moment. “I will be back as soon as I can. A few weeks. Two and a half. Three at most. I will ride fast.”

“I believe you.”

He reached up and unclasped his cloak. He pulled it off his shoulders and held it in his hands. He looked down at it for a moment, and she held her breath. It seemed heavier in his hands than any boulder ever could be. His eyes were closed, and the fabric shifted ever so slightly. His hands were shaking under the great weight that had nothing to do with heaviness of the material.

He let out a long slow breath as he opened his eyes and looked up. He held it back up toward her. “But while I am gone, will you—wear it, please. Do not take it off.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d assumed since she’d flung it off, spitting in his face and cursing him for the rest of his days, he would never offer it to her again. There was some significance to it, she was certain, only she did not know it.

But if he was going to be gone—

Marcella reached forward, sinking her hand into the fabric. The second she did his hands stilled. She swallowed thickly and nodded. “I will wear it. I will keep it until you return.”

She pulled it out of his hands and wrapped it around her shoulders. He leaned forward and secured the clasp on the left side. His fingers lingered on the clasp, pressing into her chest, over her heart.

His voice was soft as he said, “When you… When you want good fortune… you pray?”

“I do.”

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